phone calls from an ex-lover
by the drowsy poet
Summary: Sometimes when Sebastian Moran forgets, he calls his boss. Jim never picks up the phone. /For Cassidy.


**A/N:** This is my second fic for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza; 2 out of 24! Hooray! I wish you a very happy January, Cassidy, or, as you are more officially known, our dancing days. I hope that your year is as beautiful as you are. :3

All the usual disclaiming ensues. I'll also add that this is Sebastian Moran, ladies and gents, and Sebastian Moran has a somewhat of a dirty tongue.

* * *

**_message 1, left june 7th at 6:07 pm_**

Jim. Hey. It's, uh, it's me. Seb. I was just wondering when you're getting back? I got us some cheap booze; we could order some Chinese, maybe. You got that Holmes freak real good. The pet seems pretty fucked up. Don't think he's managing living without his precious boyfriend.

You got him real good.

(A pause.)

So, er, they're talking about some guy called Rich Brook?

He looks like you, Jim. He wears a fucking cardigan but other than that he looks a bloody lot like you. Shit, he even sounds like it. That Kitty Riley article says he's supposed to be some kind of fucking storyteller but I looked them up and they're fricking creepy, if you ask me.

...

They're saying you offed yourself, but I know they're lying.

Call me when you're coming back, yeah?

* * *

**_message 2, left june 9th at 2:30 pm_**

You little fucker. What're you doing, huh? I went to Bart's. There's a shitload blood on the roof; the men wouldn't let me through for ages. I threatened that weedy one, though, and he got out the way pretty quick. It smells like that gay deodorant you wear. They keep telling me that you're dead, but you wouldn't go and get yourself motherfucking _killed_ without telling me.

Who are you trying to fool?

* * *

**_message 3, left june 15th at 11:48 pm_**

They're saying Sherlock's a fake, Jim, it's bloody brilliant. I... I still can't believe we did it, I guess. Always thought his brother would sic his men on us, or Watson would get us caught. Looks like you were right about him. He's just a fag in a Christmas jumper.

You forgot to come home last night. I ordered sweet and sour pork, but you weren't here to eat it.

Sweet and sour pork is your favourite.

* * *

**_message 4, left june 26th at 2:30 am_**

Can you come home? ..._Please_, Jim. Can you do that?

* * *

**_message 5, left july 1st at 3:00 pm_**

You know what, don't even bother ever showing your _fucking_ face here again. You got me, Moriarty? Don't you _fucking_ dare. Not even for your goddamned suits. I burned them all. It's made the whole frigging flat smell like dea - _like shite_, Jim, but I don't give a rat's_ arse._

You turn up; I break your fucking face.

* * *

**_message 6, left july 1st 2012 at 3:04 pm_**

Jim, I -

_Fuck._

* * *

**_message 7, left july 1st 2012 at 3:12 pm_**

I didn't mean it, Jim. Come home. Please. I - I'll buy back the fucking suits. I'll pay for Chinese and I'll let you steal my cigarettes and I won't moan about your bloody strippers. I swear.

...

It - it's not like I care, though. Do what you want.

Um. I was out the other day. I, uh, I saw Watson. He seems kinda lost without his boyfriend. He hasn't been sleeping. He sort of just mopes around the flat, and orders too much food, and - and, he's not the same. I guess he kind of needed that fucker.

You did good, boss.

You did good.

* * *

**_message 8, left september 27th 2012 at 7:30 am_**

I found some of your aftershave.

It didn't make me sad.

* * *

**_message 9, left october 1st 2012 at 2:40 pm_**

That movie you liked was on the telly yesterday. I didn't watch it with you when you asked me that one time because I didn't like one of the actors. The, uh, the one from that superhero film? He plays the villain with the reindeer antlers. He's sorta posh.

I can't remember his name, but he was kind of okay.

* * *

_**message 10, left october 17th 2012 at 12:03 am**_

I woke up and remembered those little noises that came from the backest back of your throat, early in the morning before you'd stumble onto the floor and make yourself coffee.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. I can't sleep.

I like that little space behind your earlobe.

There's a window above our - _my_ - bed. You liked it open, but you were never cold because I was there and your nails would curve into my hand, and I'd shake you off, but I hope you know that I didn't mean it. Not really.

I closed the window because you're not here to tell me I can't.

Don't have too much fun without me.

* * *

_**message 11, left december 21st 2012 at 11:07 am**_

It's the end of the world, Jim, and you aren't even here to see it.

Guess I always thought you'd be the one to put it here.

* * *

_**message 12, left december 25th 2012 at 9:32 pm**_

Merry Christmas, you bastard.

* * *

_**message 13, left february 8th 2013 at 7:16 pm**_

I didn't call on New Years 'cause I didn't need to. Bet you were somewhere under the earth getting hammered, right?

I don't think I'm going to call you anymore, Jim.

Was there ever really any point?

* * *

_**message 14, left may 17th 2015 at 6:01 pm**_

He's back, Jim. Sherlock's back. Looks like he was the one who got _you_.

He got you real good, boss.

Him and his fucking boyfriend have "told the truth," or some shit.

The world loves him, Jim. Turn's out Richard Brook's just some shitfaced bastard of an actor who put a bullet in his brain. Turns out Richard Brook is you, Jim. _You__. _You're in the fucking news and you're_ dead._

Sherlock came back for John.

_Where are you?_

* * *

_FIN_


End file.
